


Poetic Endings

by literati42



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Banter, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Faramir deserves happiness, Faramir is a gay king, Fluff, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mentions of canon character death, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-War of the Ring, Romance, Slow Burn, Sweet, Éomer is a bi-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-23
Updated: 2021-01-23
Packaged: 2021-03-14 22:54:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28928361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/literati42/pseuds/literati42
Summary: Visiting his sister in the house of healing allows Éomer the chance to get to know Faramir. Boromir once promised Éomer he would be good for his brother, as Faramir struggles against the black breath, Éomer gets to find out if this is true.
Relationships: Éomer Éadig/Faramir (Son of Denethor II)
Comments: 13
Kudos: 53





	Poetic Endings

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first ever LOTR fic! What! I stumbled on this ship and it has bewitched me, body and soul! This fic is by request from @shinybabyb on twitter <3
> 
> Cover art by the amazing @shinnewn on twitter! Such a good friend with such beautiful work 
> 
> Follow me on twitter for more Faramir simping @themythofpsyche
> 
> Theme song of writing this was Taylor Swift’s Coney Island

Faramir sat in the house of healing, staring out the window. He felt the bed shift as Éowyn sat beside him. “Your wound seems nearly healed,” she said. He glanced her way, then slowly returned his gaze out the window. “But there is more than one form of healing necessary.” He felt her hand on his shoulder. “The black breath?” When he did not answer, her hand tightened on his shoulder. “Aragorn says that those wounds will heal with time, sunlight, laughter, and love.”

“And what if my wounds go back further?” Faramir asked. “What if what ails me was there before the breath? Would sunlight still cure me?” His tone was not harsh, but he felt the strength of his words and flinched. “Forgive me.”

“Not necessary,” she replied.

He stood slowly, “I need a moment.” He headed out before she could respond. Faramir’s steps still felt sluggish, held down with a weight of shadows and pain. After a short while, he noticed footsteps falling in rhythm with his.

“You have healed a great deal if you can walk around so easily.”

Faramir did not slow his steps. He knew his movements were slow enough at present to allow the other to draw up beside him. Éomer stepped up to his side.

“You speak in exaggerations, King of Rohan,” Faramir said.

“No, in half-truths maybe,” Éomer replied.

Before the black breath, before the burning pyre and fever, Faramir was not well acquainted with the young rider of Rohan. They spoke infrequently. Éomer knew Boromir better in his time, but Faramir remembered what few meetings they had in his youth. He suspected the memories were not shared. Still, in the passage of time, since the battle, as he and Éowyn slowly came back to health and began to forge a friendship, Faramir had begun to know Éomer as well. The new king of Rohan was deeply devoted to his sister, and consequently, frequently around.

Faramir glanced over at him, seeing his open face. No, he suspected the memory of their early meetings were lost to Éomer. It was not unexpected, Faramir found people forgot him frequently, that he faded to the background of their memories.

_-_-_

Éomer was headed to the house of healing when he heard his sister speaking. He paused in the doorway, watching her with Faramir. The young Stewart of Gondor was only beginning to find his voice again. In the early days when Éomer visited the house of healing, Faramir had been in the throes of fever, and then nearly rendered silent by a pain Éomer could only imagine.

There were everywhere whispers of what had happened. Of what had nearly been Faramir’s fate at the hands of his father.

Éomer listened at the doorway, heard Éowyn giving her friend gentle encouragement. Then he heard the words that gave him pause. He heard Faramir speak in a broken tone, “And what if my wounds go back further? What if what ails me was there before the breath? Would sunlight still cure me?”

Éomer retreated back to avoid Faramir’s notice as the Stewart exited the room. He felt a moment of alarm as he began following the other man, but Faramir seemed steady enough on his feet. He began bantering with him, and Faramir returned it gently.

“Were you not headed to visit with your sister?” Faramir asked him.

“I was, until I saw a patient giving himself reign to walk unescorted.”

Faramir glanced over at him, “I am well enough and out of danger.”

“Ah, you say that,” Éomer replied, trying to force a level of seriousness into his tone, “But, there are many dangers. Who know what could befell the Stewart of Gondor when least he expects it.” It was a dangerous gambit, Éomer knew. Much had truly befallen the new Stewart of Gondor, but Éomer had grown up with the riders of Rohan, learning that great risk chanced great gain. He would gamble much for a single laugh from the solemn Faramir.

Faramir lifted his eyebrow. Not a laugh then, but at least he did not seem to have misstepped. “And what grave danger do you see for me inside the walls of Gondor?”

“Oh,” Éomer said, bolstered by Faramir playing along, “You could be overrun with rats.”

“Rats?”

“Oh yes.”

“Has Gondor become overrun with rats since I was waylaid?” Faramir asked.

“Swarming with them,” he replied.

Faramir only nodded, “I suppose I know my first duty as Stewart.”

Perhaps Éomer had not succeeded in getting Faramir to laugh, but he had pulled him into playing along, and the response—so dry in tone—was enough to make Éomer himself laugh.

“Perhaps you do not need a guard, how about a companion instead?”

“I am at all times guarded,” Faramir replied, nodding to a guard they walked by who returned the gesture in kind. “Their eyes are ever on me inside the city, but companions I find myself short on.” He frowned and Éomer tried not to be distracted by the way Faramir’s face moved as he thought. He wondered when he first noticed how beautiful Faramir looked. It seemed as if he had always known it, even in the days when their paths rarely crossed. “Why do you wish to be my companion this day, king of Rohan? Is there some way I can assist you?”

Éomer knew this was Faramir in summary. He could not imagine anyone wanting to spend time in his presence for his own sake. Everything was filtered through what use he could serve others.

Éomer remembered seeing Faramir for the first time. They were young, Éomer shy of manhood, and Faramir just older than him. He was traveling to Gondor with his uncle when they met Boromir, Faramir and their company. They rode together the rest of the way to the White City. Éomer found himself riding at the side of the Stewart’s youngest son.

Faramir was pale, with dark hair that reminded Éomer of a cloudless night. He was so serious even in his youth that though Éomer’s voice frequently galloped like his horse’s hooves, he could find no words in that moment. He rode silently beside Faramir, watching him. Never once did the son of Gondor even notice the attention Éomer was paying him. Instead, his focus went to the company. He had a kind word for each of the men. He seemed to know so much about them, and they responded to his kindness in turn. Éomer could see the way they revered him, even in his youth. He could see further that the men cared for Faramir. He had their loyalty long before he was Captain of the guard. Éomer knew Faramir never saw it, but Boromir did.

When they stopped to rest their mounts, the older Stewart son stopped beside Éomer, looking toward Faramir and nodding his chin. “He will make an excellent Captain of the guard.” Éomer looked at Boromir. The man’s eyes were full of pride and love as he watched his brother. Then Boromir met Éomer’s gaze. “You do well to look at him with admiration.”

Éomer glanced his way, “Is he so gifted a fighter?”

“A fighter?” Boromir asked. “Oh yes, he is a gifted fighter, but many men are. My brother is that and more. In matters of intelligence, I have rarely met his equal.”

“He does not know it,” Éomer said without quite meaning to. He saw Boromir raise an eyebrow.

“It is so,” Boromir said slowly, “You observe my brother closely.”

“I am an observant man,” Éomer replied, a bit too quickly. In truth, he was glad it was admiration that Boromir read on his face and not a deeper interest. It would never be anything, and so Éomer let it go. It was easily done. There were wars to fight and soldiers to train, but ever in the back of his thoughts remained a memory of that moment and a curiosity to know what type of man could command such loyalty and reverence so young.

He never quite forgot the mystery of what lay behind those grey eyes.

Now, as Éomer focused back on Faramir before him, he smiled softly.  
“I thought I would take a ride. A Rohirrim withers in the absence of a regular ride.”

“That does not explain why you walk with me,” Faramir replied, “As the stables lie in the other direction.”

“So they do,” Éomer said, “I wondered merely if you are as healed as you say, will you ride with me?” Éomer knew the trap he laid for the young Stewart. Faramir could not deny him without admitting to his suffering. He watched him falter between choices, his reserve warring with what Éomer suspected was genuine exhaustion.

“Perhaps a ride is in order, I suspect it would fall under my king’s healing regiment.”

“Sunshine and fresh air?” Éomer asked.

Faramir raised an eyebrow and Éomer realized how close he had come to admitting to his eavesdropping. “I understand he said similar to Éowyn. It is said to work well with the black breath.”

“Black breath, yes,” Faramir replied, his shoulders slumping almost imperceptibly. He stopped, “Shall we go to the stables?”

Faramir began walking before Éomer could respond. The King of Rohan frowned as he followed. He had hoped that Faramir would admit he was still in pain, but Éomer realized, he had underestimated the pride of a son of Gondor. He wondered when he would stop making that mistake even as he worried about Faramir on a horse.

Éomer remembered when they were young, when his Rohirrim and he had celebrated in the taverns of Gondor with the elder Stewart’s son, and he clapped Boromir on the back. ”Why does your brother not drink with us?” he asked. Boromir raised an eyebrow.

“My brother is in the archives, I suspect. He prefers the taste of knowledge to the taste of liquor.”

Éomer leaned his chin on his hand. His vision was a bit blurred by the drink, his mind a bit muddled, and perhaps that was why he struggled to keep his thoughts from Faramir. “Tell me of your brother?”

“You take a great interest in him I see,” Boromir said this with a kind of knowing, Éomer did not know how to interpret. He knew it was strong mead and a warm fire making him bold, but he could not quite change the course of his words.

“He interests me greatly.”

“Do not let him catch you saying so,” Boromir replied, “It would greatly embarrass him.” Boromir rubbed his chin, “Though perhaps it would do him good to be embarrassed by praise more often.”

“I overstepped,” Éomer said.

“Not hardly,” Boromir replied, “Unlike my brother, I experience no shame. It brings me great joy to hear Faramir so openly praised.” Boromir leaned on the table. “You would be good for my brother, I think.”

“In what way?” Éomer asked.

“In many ways, perhaps,” Boromir replied, but he cut the conversation there by calling out a toast to the other riders of Rohan. It sidetracked the talk, but Éomer did not forget his words.

Back in the moment, walking beside the silent Faramir, Éomer remembered that conversation. Boromir was headstrong and not nearly as perceptive as his younger brother, yet Éomer found himself wondering how much of what he felt Boromir had guessed. What had he seen in Éomer’s words of praise that day? What had he meant by his comment.

Éomer looked at the son of Gondor that was before him now, the way that Faramir’s head hung a bit even as he tried to square his shoulders. They way he still favored one side but put forth tremendous effort to hide it.

He seemed to feel Éomer’s eyes and looked over.

“I was thinking…” Éomer said, then faltered. He watched a play of emotions, a subtle flicker in Faramir’s eyes. Where Boromir had been expressive in all things, Faramir was reserved, but the emotions were still there for anyone who slowed down enough to look.

“You need not hold back your thoughts from me,” Faramir said.

“A strange thing to say for one who never speaks his mind.”

Faramir raised an eyebrow, “Is that how you see me?”

“Is it an inaccurate perception?” Éomer challenged.

A ghost of a smile touched Faramir’s lips, “You sound like your sister.”

“She is wise, I take that a compliment.”

“It is one,” Faramir replied, “It is correct. I am not easy with my words.” He looked at Éomer, “You think of my brother, don’t you?”

“I was,” Éomer replied, “But I did not mean to darken your thoughts.”  
“No, Boromir has never…” Faramir stilled. It was this, not the physical pain, that finally made the man stop and put his hand on the wall. His grief held a physical weight that halted his steps. “Thoughts of Boromir are never far from me, nor do I want them to be. If your thoughts turn to him, I beg you share them, and promise, I would be thinking of him as well either way.”

Éomer inclined his head, “I thought of his fondness of you.”

Faramir ducked, as if he could hide from the words.

“He was so proud of you,” Éomer pushed on. “I never saw Boromir happier than when he spoke of you.”

Faramir pulled in a sharp breath and Éomer hesitated, wonder if he had misjudged. The pain was tangible in the air between them. He reached a hand toward Faramir, but the Stewart took a step back. “Perhaps you should sit.”

“No, we are going for a ride,” Faramir said the words with a conviction that the shake in his voice could not support, and he made for the stables. Éomer dropped into step behind him, wondering if he had pushed too far. Let his own feelings cloud his perception of what Faramir needed.

He knew he desperately wanted to be good for Faramir the way Boromir predicted he would be. “I should not have said...”

Faramir hesitated with his hand on the stable door, “No. It is no fault of yours. It is the black breath on me.” He made his way to his horse, gently stroking her muzzle as Éomer watched.

“Do you wish to take her for a ride, my lord?” a stable boy asked. Faramir nodded, leaning against the door as he watched. He crossed his arms, but it did little to hide the discomfort in the stance.

“I have caused you pain when I meant to bring you out of it,” Éomer said, “For that I am sorry.”

Faramir looked over at him, “It is with this intent you followed me?”

Éomer nodded, “I was in the doorway when you spoke to my sister, I heard more than I meant.”

Realization crossed Faramir’s face before he buried it behind the fortress of his defenses. “You heard.” When Éomer did not deny it, Faramir went to his horse. He got a handhold on the saddle, a foot in the stirrup, and made to swing himself up. A gasp of pain escaped his lips. Éomer was to him without a thought, catching him just enough to steady him in the saddle.

“We should go back to the house of healing.”  
“No,” Faramir said, his voice tight with pain, “I promise you. It hurts the same in a healing bed as on a horseback.”

Éomer knit his brow in doubt, but did not push it. He became conscious of his hands—one at Faramir’s back, the other on his leg. He held him steady, trying not to focus on the warmth of the body under his touch, until Faramir straightened. Then he stepped back, going to his own mount without comment.

_-_-_

They road in silence through the white streets of Gondor, but Faramir’s mind was anything but quiet. His eyes caught on every damaged inch of the city, every piece of evidence that he had fallen—allowing his men to be killed and leaving the city unprotected. That while he lay in a fever haze, his people were fighting and dying just outside.

Faramir’s eyes snagged on scorch marks that blackened the white stone wall. His breath caught. There was so much fire in battle. There would be scorch marks all over the city. He knew it to be true, knew it, but was still entirely unprepared for the sight of it. Scorch marks, a lingering touch of fire. Fire, like the fire that had consumed his father. Fire that had nearly consumed him.

It felt as if the black breath was on him again. Faramir was undone.

Faramir kicked his heels into the side of his mount, pushing her into a gallop. He heard Éomer give a gasp of surprise before he heard Éomer push his own horse to match Faramir’s pace.

They rode fast until they were outside the walls of the city, until they were in the fields. Scorched grass. Fire. Fire had been everywhere.

Faramir’s breath sped up and he leaned down, pushing his horse faster. He heard Éomer’s voice, but the words felt distorted to his ears. He kept pushing. He felt the strain of it, felt his side crying out. Then a hand was batting at his gloves, reaching for the reigns. Éomer got ahold of them and pulled. Faramir let him slow the horse, but it did nothing to slow his breath.

“Faramir? Faramir!”

The black breath was back. He had not seen a _Nazgûl_ and yet it could be nothing but the breath. It felt like a tightness in his chest, like a screaming in his mind. He keeled over the horse’s neck, teetering. He felt strong arms on him, guiding him down, supporting him. He had not even seen Éomer dismount.

The minute his feet touched ground, his knees buckled. He would have fallen unceremoniously save for Éomer, who guided him down gently until they were both sitting in the grass.

“Lean forward,” Éomer said. Faramir had the sense that the other man had been speaking to him for some time, but these were the first words to break through the screaming darkness in his mind. He felt Éomer’s hand on the back of his neck. The only part of his body he felt connected to was where Éomer’s skin met his. “Breathe.”

Then there were strong arms around him, a strong chest at his back. Faramir closed his eyes and let each place Éomer touched him ground him to his body. He felt Éomer’s fingers squeeze his arm.

Faramir felt his breath slowing gradually and squeezed his eyes shut against the moment as it came back to him. “I apologize…”

“Don’t…”

“I apologize,” Faramir cut him off, “The effects of the black breath linger.”

“Is it?” Éomer asked. Faramir forced his eyes open and met Éomer’s gaze.

_-_-_

Éomer held Faramir in the field outside the white City, their horses standing guard, alert in a way that said they could read the emotion swirling in the air around the two men. Éomer held Faramir, touching him in ways he would never venture to in regular moments. Trying to tether him, body and soul, to the present, to the overcast day this side of the war even as he knew Faramir’s mind was traveling back to the long, dark days before.

“Breathe,” he repeated again and again until it seemed to start to sink in. Then Faramir began to apologize. Apologize for being overtaken with emotions. Éomer tried to stop him, but Faramir was passing it off.

“The effects of the black breath linger.”

“Is it?” Éomer found himself saying. Faramir’s eyes finally opened and met his. “I heard you with my sister,” Éomer reminded him. Then softly, “Why do you believe you were broken before the black breath?”

“Do all men of Rohan speak with so little hesitance?” Faramir asked.

“Do all men of Gondor conceal so much?” Éomer returned.

“I meant no offense,” Faramir replied, “And they do not. My brother hid nothing.”

Éomer felt a soft, sad smile cross his lips. “No, he held nothing back. If he was angry, you knew it.” He looked at Faramir, “And if he loved you, you knew it.”

“Truly,” Faramir agreed, the same pain from before returning to his eyes. “He never hid his affection for me.” He looked at the grass. “I have not his nature. Every day I feel the lack.”

“The lack?” Éomer replied, “You are different than your brother surely, but you cannot believe that speaks of lack.”

“He was the son Gondor needed,” Faramir said.

“Can you not see that Gondor needed Boromir and Faramir?” Éomer replied, “That the differences of your nature both served Gondor?” Faramir met his eyes with something distant, something resigned.

“No, Gondor needed Boromir. In the end she merely had Faramir left.” He waved toward the walls, broken, damaged, and scorched from the siege. “And look where Faramir left her.”

“You cannot believe you are to blame!”

“I believe I did all that I could,” Faramir replied, “I believe Boromir could have done more.” He pushed himself to stand, and Éomer saw the shake running through his legs. “You ask why I believe I was broken before the black breath.” He met Éomer’s eyes. “It is because your sister describes how she felt. She describes a lack, a darkness where once was light. She feels the absence of something familiar to her, a joy that has been stolen. I do not feel that. How can I? When I felt those things long before the black breath touched me.” Éomer climbed to his feet beside him, barely preventing himself from reaching for the other man. Faramir closed his eyes. “The sight of my city in ruins…”

“So come away with me,” Éomer said, when Faramir’s eyes snapped open, he backed up, “Come away with us, with Éowyn and I. If the sight of the White City troubles you so.”

“And leave the city in need?” Faramir shook his head slowly, “I could never turn my back on the people of Gondor. I must stay and rebuild. I will see the pain wiped away from her streets.”  
“And what of your pain?” Éomer spoke quietly, “Do you truly mean it has belonged to you always?”

“Always? I do not know,” Faramir replied, his eyes full of such despair it stilled Éomer’s breath. “But long. Long enough I know the shape of it, like a well-worn cloak. I do not believe my King’s healing can touch what ails me. It is too deep and old a wound.”

“I hate to see you like this,” Éomer said, and it brought Faramir’s eyes back to his.

“Your compassion is moving,” Faramir said, but there was a question beneath it, “But I do not deserve more of it than any other citizen of Gondor.”

Éomer shook his head, “It is nothing so vague as compassion. It is you specifically that pains me.”

“And why should the pain of the Stewart of Gondor trouble the thoughts of the King of Rohan?” Faramir asked.

“It should not, I suspect beyond that befitting an alliance,” Éomer replied, “But I am speaking of the pain of Faramir troubling the heart of Éomer.”

Those grey eyes shifted subtly and Éomer found he could not read the change in them. Faramir shook his head, “I know less why that should trouble you.” Faramir took a step away, and Éomer felt a near tangible break of the tension in the air between them. The Stewart took one more step, then something gave, his knee buckling. Éomer moved without thinking, catching up. He lowered Faramir until they both sat on the grass again. “Sorry, I just…I just need a moment,” Faramir said, his face tinged with a grey that caused worry to stir deep within Éomer. The rider of Rohan placed his hand on Faramir’s shoulder.

“Do not apologize for a moment of weakness. There is no shame in a hard-won wound.”  
“And what of a meaningless wound?” Faramir asked. He turned his face away, “Forgive me. I have no gentle words in me today.”

“And if I want to hear your ugly truths instead of your beautiful lies?” Éomer asked. Faramir met his gaze again. “What truths would you say knowing no one can hear you besides me and the horses. What truths would you say if I swore to you none of it will ever pass my lips. What then?”

“I would wonder what compels you?” Faramir replied.

“What if it was curiosity?”

“Then I would tell you, you court disappointment,” Faramir replied. “My brother lived a life worthy of ballad. I do not have stories worth telling, I have only tragedies without poetic endings.”

“Perhaps you have not found the right poet,” Éomer replied.

“And are you such?”  
“Me? No. I have no talent for words.” Éomer took another risk. He gently touched Faramir’s arm. “Perhaps, you would tell me your stories even if they could not be summarized in a Hobbit song?”

Faramir blinked and Éomer caught a flash of tears in the other man’s eyes before he turned his gaze away. “My brother died on a quest that was supposed to be mine. It was my dream that began it, but he claimed the right of it. There are those who believe he did it for glory.” Faramir shook his head, “But it was never that way between us.”

“I know this,” Éomer replied, “Boromir cared for no one so much as you.”

“And it was his undoing,” Faramir replied. “He claimed my quest and died in the pursuit of it. He did it to protect me and it cost him his life. And my father lost his beloved son for it. In the agony of that loss, he sent me to my death. Every man who followed me was slaughtered because I said yes to my father’s impossible request.”

Éomer felt the pain of it in his own chest and his grip on Faramir’s arm tightened, “You followed your lord father’s command.”

“Knowing it would lead to ruin,” Faramir said. “How can I forgive myself for that? Now when my city needs rebuilding, I can hardly look at her without the pain of that decision suffocating the breath in my lungs.”

Éomer wanted to run his thumb across Faramir’s brow and rub away the wrinkles of pain and sorrow. He watched as Faramir struggled in vain against the emotions, felt the tension of that fight in every breath in the air between them.

“You have suffered great loss and deep injury,” Éomer said, “And you push yourself to be strong because others need you to be, but Faramir, I will tell you what my uncle told Éowyn and me when we lost our parents. The emotions will out, whether you want them to or not. They are as those clouds,” Éomer said, glancing toward the sky. He examined the overcast turning darker, “They will not hold back their water forever.”

Faramir pulled in a jagged breath, raising his hand to his face. Éomer heard a hitched breath that Faramir tried to stifle behind his fingers. Then a sound tore ragged from Faramir’s throat and the pain released from him in tears and breaths. At that moment, the rain broke from the sky as if Faramir had held even it back with the force of his suppressed grief. Éomer grabbed him by the shoulders and pulled him in, holding him as the sobs shook his frame and the rain poured on them. It was a grief so intense the whole of his body could not contain it.

Éomer held him until the shudders turned to shivers and he saw the pale tinge to the other man’s skin. “You’re soaked through,” He said, “We will bring around your fever again, and my sister will send me to an early grave for allowing it.” Faramir nodded, struggling to his feet with Éomer’s hands as a guide. Then Éomer watched all the color fade from Faramir’s face. “Faramir!” he called as the man’s eyes rolled and he fell.

_-_-_

Faramir stirred slowly. He felt cold and too warm at once. His eye fluttered open and he saw the house of healing cast in candlelight, the dark of night visible through the window. The light cast off the candles caught on the shape of a man in the chair beside Faramir’s bed. Éomer held a book, frowning at the words in it. His eyes flickered to Faramir’s face and then widened.

“There you are,” Éomer said. He leaned forward, resting his elbow on his knee. “I thought I really would die at my sister’s hand when you fell.”

“I am sorry I caused more inconvenience.”

“It was not the inconvenience that would have ended my existence,” Éomer said, “My sister is quite taken with you. She believes you to be the best of men, and that makes me the greatest of fools for almost robbing the world of you because I wanted to go for a ride. That is nearly a direct quote. My sister is no more poet than me, but she has a way with threats.” Faramir listened, but could not find the strength to respond. He found it was not necessary with Éomer, as the man continued on, undeterred. “Aragorn saw to your wounds again. It seems there was a lingering effect of the black breath after all and the cold aggravated it.” He met Faramir’s gaze. “How do you feel?” Éomer held up his hand to stop an answer, “No. Really, how?”

Faramir swallowed his immediate answer and considered. He took a breath and felt his chest hurt with the pain of expelling every ounce of his grief. “Emptier.” He was not sure the words would make sense, but Éomer gave him a small smile.

“I told you the clouds would break. I did not expect it to be so literal,” Éomer said, “Are you a wizard?”

Faramir laughed despite himself, a bare sound that broke immediately into a cough that pulled painfully on his chest. He felt Éomer’s hand supporting him. Then the strong hand guided him back to the pillow. “No, though I wanted to be one once,” Faramir replied.

“Did you?” Éomer asked, releasing Faramir and resting his chin on his hand again. 

“Whenever Mithrandir visited the City in my youth, I would learn all that I could from him,” Faramir replied, “I had thought for a time I would learn magic that way. Child’s folly, but a deeply held one for a time.” He stopped and looked at Éomer. “Have I said something amiss?”

“No,” Éomer said, “It is just that I have not heard you say so many words at a time.” Faramir ducked his head. “Please, do not let my over honest response still your tongue. I cannot imagine wanting to listen to anyone speak more.”

Faramir felt a splash of color in his cheeks and he fell silent.

“But I have pushed you far and you need rest I see,” Éomer said. He lifted the book on his lap, “I was just reading this book from the archives. Éowyn tells me that it is one of your favorites, though I confess I cannot understand why. His metaphors prove the man would not know a horse from the mud on his boot.”

Faramir gave a bare laugh again, “I rather think he was more interested in writing of his love than the accuracies of husbandry.”

“Ah you see, in Rohan our poets can do both. They write of the depth of beauty beheld in their beloved while drawing accurate metaphors about the horses it reminds them of,” Éomer replied, “For example, a poet of Rohan could write of your grey eyes and how it makes their heart gallop without losing a bit of equestrian accuracy.”

Faramir swallowed, his throat suddenly thick, “Why would a poet of Rohan have any words about the color of my eyes.”

“Ah,” Éomer replied, and the candle flickered as he leaned forward, casting shadows across his features, “You have eyes that inspire poetry.” When Faramir could find no words to reply, Éomer sat back. “Still, your poet writes well of the women and men he has loved.” Faramir’s eyes went to his, searching, but Éomer was staring at the page as he spoke. “I did not know you had poets that write so openly in Gondor.”

“It is a rare thing,” Faramir replied, his voice barely audible.

Éomer looked up then, “And it is your favorite.”

Words died on Faramir’s tongue. It would have been easy enough for Boromir to craft a lie to save him. He had done so a time or two when their father’s attention landed on something he deemed “unusual” in Faramir. Boromir would craft a lie with ease. He was an honest man in most respects but felt no guilt in deception if it served his brother.

Faramir, unfortunately, had always been struck with a case of terminal honesty.

Éomer seemed to read something on his face and gently touched his wrist on the bed between them. “In Rohan, our poets have far less reservation than the poets of Gondor.” He patted the front cover of the book, “We have many such works, but you knew this. I know the rumors travel further than the Rohirrim do.”

“Rumors do travel, but truths are harder to track,” Faramir replied.

“Shall I tell you truths, Faramir?” Éomer asked. “Do I have your leave?”

“You have it,” Faramir said, and as he spoke he knew that he would say most anything to hear Éomer call him by his name again.

“In Rohan, people are free to love whom they wish. Men, women, and those who are neither are able to speak as this poet does.” Éomer smiled softly, “I see that is not the way the rumors describe it.”

“It is not, quite what they say,” Faramir granted. Faramir had not heard the private lives of the people of Rohan described so gently. He had heard whispers among the guard of Rohan’s ways, usually spoken in derision or disbelief. For his own men, he did not allow such talk. Rohan was not their enemy and he would not catch them speaking ill of the neighboring kingdom. Faramir knew his second in command, Madril, and his friend and guard Beregond both prevented such talk with harsher words than he did. He knew they did this out of protective loyalty to him, and did not allow himself to guess why they believed such protection necessary. What did it mean that the two guards closest to him believed they were protecting him by preventing harsh words about the love of two men?

What did it mean that he knew they were right?

“Aye, we in Rohan know the words spoken of us in lands that believe differently are unfavorable,” Éomer shrugged, “What of it. We will continue to love who we love and they will continue to say what they say. We have not survived the war of the Rings to be cowed by the words of judgmental Gondor.”

“I meant no judgment.”

“And I did not mean you,” Éomer replied.

_-_-_

Éomer remembered the night he spoke with Boromir about the younger Stewart’s son, the night where Boromir declared that he would be good for Faramir, and chose not to explain the declaration. “Faramir is reserved,” Boromir said a few drinks further into the night, “It is not his fault, but what is required of him. Still, I wish our kingdom were a kinder place, that it would welcome my brother as he is and not try to bend him to its will.”

“Can you not make it so, when you are Stewart?” Éomer asked.

“Oh aye, perhaps,” Boromir replied, “I do as I can now, but it is not enough. I would tear down every brick of the White City and rebuild it with my own hands if I believed I could make it a place where my brother could be his whole self without reserve.” Boromir stared into his ale then.

“No greater love can one person hope for,” Éomer replied, “But is Faramir’s nature truly so opposed to Gondor’s ways?”

Boromir considered this, perhaps longer because of the drink. “Gondor does not see his strength though he be one of her strongest warriors. His strength is not self-proclaiming and the ways of Gondor are not used to searching for subtly. And his heart is far too open for Gondor’s sensibilities. It would crush him and make him in its own image, and never notice a light fade out of the world.”

Éomer thought of those far away words as he saw Faramir warring between the vulnerability of the moment between them and the reserved forced on him through a lifetime in the Gondor Boromir described.

“And here I promised Gandalf I would not tire you,” Éomer said, offering the other man an out, a way to escape the conversation. He would not push Faramir. He did not want confessions that were forced. He stood. “I will let you rest.”

Faramir’s fingers ghosted across Éomer’s hand, barely a touch. “Don’t go.”

Éomer slowly lowered himself back into the chair. “Do I give you comfort?” Then Éomer stopped, really noticing the touch. “Your hand is cold.” He took Faramir’s hand more firmly in his. He was as cold as death. Éomer lifted his other hand to Faramir’s brow and felt the chill there too. He noticed the way a light coloring of blue was coming to the other man’s lips. He turned and saw a servant, “Go! Get the King!” The servant jumped in surprise and ran off at the urgency of his words. Then Éomer turned back. “How long have you felt cold again?”

“It comes suddenly,” Faramir replied, his teeth chattering. “I will be alright.”

“No,” Éomer said, cupping Faramir’s chin with both hands. Faramir closed his eyes and leaned into the touch as if seeking what warmth it offered and Éomer knew then what he needed. “May I touch you?” 

Faramir opened his eyes, searching, but he nodded.

Éomer sat on the side of the bed and shifted his arm under Faramir’s shoulder. He maneuvered the other man against his chest and wrapped his arms around him. Faramir turned into the warmth on instinct, curling into him, and Éomer tightened his grip on the man. He tucked Faramir’s shoulder under his chin. “I have you, Faramir.” He was so cold. It shot fear through Éomer’s heart. Faramir’s breath shuddered, his body shivering violently. Éomer held on and repeated again, “I have you, I have you.”

He did not know what time passed before Aragorn was beside them. If the king had any surprise at seeing them like this, he did not show it. He just pressed his palm to Faramir’s forehead, his eyes clouding with concern.

“The breath?” Éomer asked.

“He wars with it,” Aragorn replied, “It should have killed him, by all right, but Faramir’s heart is strong. He fights it, but in some moments it gains ground.” Éomer made to move but the King held up a hand to stop him. “Your warmth is helping.” As if in response, Faramir’s hand curled around the fabric of Éomer’s tunic, gripping it tighter. Éomer watched Aragorn’s eyes flicker to it and then back to Éomer. “I think your presence helps him as well.”

There was more between the words than in them, but Éomer heard their meaning as if it was spoken aloud.

“Will he heal?” Éomer asked.

Aragorn frowned, “He fights it still,” he said again, “Yet it continues to return when I think he is clear.”

“What if it is the city that makes him sick?” Éomer asked, his words quiet.

_-_-_

It was the swaying that first brought Faramir back to awareness. Back and forth, back and forth. Then he slowly became aware of sunlight on his face, but it’s warmth could not seem to pierce the endless cold that ran to his bones. He forced his eyes open, squinting up into the sunlight, turning only as it made spots form in front of his eyes. He blinked trying to place the swaying feeling.

Faramir realized he was on a gurney, carried carefully between two guards. Horses were walking slowly around him, the sound of their hooves against the road beating out a soothing rhythm. A hand fell on his shoulder and he looked up to see Beregond walking at his side.

“Be still. You are yet healing, my lord. We go to Rohan,” he said.

“Rohan…” Faramir replied, trying to rise, but Beregond’s hand stilled him once more.

“By the King’s orders. Rest, let me see to everything.”

Faramir wanted to protest, but the cold was too deep. He let his hand fall from the gurney, turning his head to the side to watch as his fingers traced across the flowers—gold and purple catching the sunlight—like he was skimming across water.

_-_-_

When next awareness returned, Faramir found himself laid out in a bed in a small room, sunlight falling on him from the window. How was it possible there seemed to be so much more sun in Rohan than Gondor when they rested under the same sky? Rohan, Faramir realized. That was where Beregond said they traveled toward, and where he could only assume he was now.

He squinted at the space around him. It was small and bare save the bed he lay in, and one of the beautiful yellow flowers laid on a table beside him. His eyes caught on the figure leaning on the doorframe. Éomer.

“Where…”

“Rohan, outside the city,” Éomer replied. “This is a friend’s house. He comes here to escape from people and be among nature.” A smile touched Éomer’s lips. “He’s one of the Rohan poets we spoke of.”

Faramir looked at him, trying to make sense of it.

“I thought you would heal better among the sunlight and smell of the trees,” Éomer explained, “Rather than trapped in a different set of city walls.”

Faramir tried to push himself up and Éomer was there in an instant, helping him, guiding him until he leaned back against the headboard. “Beregond said it was at our King’s order that we came.”

“It is.”

“I had not intended to leave the White City,” Faramir replied, and he watched Éomer’s face cloud.

“I know, and for making the decision without you, I apologize,” Éomer replied, “You were not in a place to contribute to the conversation.” Faramir became aware that Éomer’s hand had not left his shoulder. “But Aragorn and I spoke of it. I know you wish to help Gondor rebuild, but it is your king’s wish that you rebuild first, and return to the city when the breath releases you.” Faramir tried to read the other man’s face.

“You believe the city contributes to my sickness?”

“Perhaps it is hard to rid yourself of ghosts in a place where you are so haunted,” Éomer said. “Your brother’s death and your father’s…” Éomer faltered, “And the fires.”

“I do not hold any of it against my home.”

“I know, and your home loves you, Faramir. It will welcome you back when you are ready to go, but perhaps, you can let Rohan have the chance to fall in love with you too.”

Faramir looked up into Éomer’s eyes. “You believe Rohan would love me?”

“At least one Rohirrim already does.” Faramir’s breath stilled, his eyes caught on Éomer’s, but the other man did not couch his words. He did not release the tension between them this time. “I have endeavored in vain to cool my feelings toward you, to wait until I knew if they had a chance of returning, but the years have not softened them.”

“Years?” was all Faramir managed to say.

“I believe I have loved you since first I laid eyes on you, that time I met you and Boromir with the guard on the road to Gondor.” Éomer held up a hand, “You do not need return it. I want nothing more of you than that you will take my hospitality. That you will allow yourself cared for until you heal.”

“And if I do return it?” Faramir’s words were quiet, but they were enough to make Éomer go completely still.

“Do you?” Éomer asked, his usual confidence gone, replaced by quiet uncertainty.

“I…” Faramir started, “I do not quite know.” Faramir dropped Éomer’s gaze, “I have never…my feelings are not so easily named.”

Éomer took a seat on the edge of the bed, moving slowly as one would to avoid spooking a horse. “You do not have to know now. I…I wonder would you care to find out? With me?”

“Can this truly be what you want?” Faramir asked, hardly daring to believe.

“I believe, it is, more than anything,” Éomer replied.

“I would find out, with you,” Faramir said, hardly believing his daring. It was as if the distance between him and the White City, for all his love of the it, emboldened him.

“May I touch you?” Éomer asked again. Faramir nodded. This time, when Éomer cupped the back of his neck, it was not to check for fever. It sent a shiver done Faramir’s spine that had nothing to do with cold. Faramir tilted his head toward Éomer, and the other man leaned forward. “May I kiss you?” Éomer whispered, his breath tracing Faramir’s lips. The Stewart leaned in slightly more and gave a barely perceptible nod.

Éomer was bold and brash in all things but this. He kissed Framir with a gentleness that Faramir had not known he possessed, and Faramir deepened it with a boldness he would not have suspected himself of. Éomer’s fingers on the back of his neck tightened and he returned the kiss in full. The warmth of it was the first thing to pierce the dark cold of the black breath.

The warmth from Éomer’s touch was the only warmth he had felt in weeks.

Something thudded on the floor behind them and Faramir pulled away enough to see Beregrond in the doorway, one log of the many he held in his arms having fallen. Beregrond’s mouth was open just slightly in surprise, then it curled up into a smile. “Finally.” Then he seemed to become aware of himself, “As you were, my lords.” And he backed out of the room.

Faramir could not quite find it in him to be embarrassed. A laugh slipped out of his lips and Éomer returned this as well. They laughed together without leaving each other’s airspace and the warmth of it filled Faramir even more.

And Faramir realized in that moment, he no longer felt the pang of bone-deep emptiness. It was not everything, but there was a drop in the well of warmth and light and something approaching love. Faramir leaned his forehead against Éomer’s. The other man responded by wrapping his arms around him and Faramir curled in again.

He could heal here, Faramir realized, but Éomer was wrong about one thing. Faramir did not believe it mattered if he were in Rohan or Gondor, as long as the arms around him were Éomer’s, he knew he could heal. “Tell me more of your Rohirrim poetry?”

“Perhaps you will even get me to write some,” Éomer said. Faramir turned his chin to look into the other man’s arms.

“You told me you had no way with words.”

“No, I am horrible,” Éomer said, “But I meant what I said before. You are the kind of man to inspire some, Faramir.” Then Éomer raised an eyebrow, “And what is that smile?”

“I love when you say my name.”

Éomer smiled, leaning in, “Can I kiss you, Faramir?” When Faramir nodded he kissed him again, this one shorter. “Faramir.” He said again and kissed him once more. “Faramir.” He kissed the other man’s forehead. Faramir practically melted in his touch. “Faramir.” He lifted his hand and kissed this too. “Faramir.” This one he left on his lips again. Faramir felt weak, leaning back into his arms again. Éomer laid his chin on Faramir’s shoulder and murmured his name until he fell asleep.


End file.
